Dear Stiles
by NoTimeToStop
Summary: In her head, a nameless girl eloquently confesses her love for Stiles Stilinski and shares her fondest memories of him, while admiring him from a safe distance. One-sided, unrequited Stiles/OC. (Written in first person, with Stiles addressed affectionately as "you.") Reviews appreciated! {Discontinued until further notice.}
1. One: The First Time

_**This is for everyone who has ever felt invisible, and for Bec, whose friendship and late-night chats about boys and falling in love have made the loneliness bearable, the bitterness sweet, and unrequited love a little more beautiful.**_

 _ **I'm still working on my other multi-chapter TW fics, but this is something I'll probably update concurrently. I'm not quite sure where it will lead, but I hope you'll be interested in coming along for the ride! This fic is written in the form of mental love letters, in which a currently nameless girl admits her feelings to Stiles ("you") and shares her fondest memories of him.**_

* * *

 **One: The First Time**

I remember the first time I saw you.

It was a bright day in mid-July, the kind of summer day that makes the whole world a beautiful place and school seems forever away. The sun warmed everything in its golden rays, and even the dust swirling through the air was a thing of wonder. I was riding my bike down Cedar Street. It was dark purple, with a white seat, and covered in stickers. Mom had attached a white and blue basket to the front, in which I used to carry my teddy, Lieutenant Buttons, or a couple apples and a water bottle, or any interesting discoveries I had made on my travels – a smooth, flat rock or a white bird feather; once I even found a red salamander at the park. I scooped him into an empty plastic ice-cream container, filled with grass and a big rock, air holes poked into the top with a pencil, and brought him home.

I was ten years old and happy. On that particular day, I was on my way home from the grocery store a few blocks from my house. Mom had sent me out for milk, oranges, eggs, and bread. These items were packed snugly into my basket, to keep them from crashing about. Loose change clinked in my pocket as I pedalled. I was biking as quickly as I could, because Mom needed the eggs and milk as soon as possible, so she could start making a cake for my sister's birthday party the next day.

As the oldest sibling, I took this responsibility very seriously. I felt the success of the entire party and my sister's subsequent happiness rested on my shoulders. A burden I did not take lightly. I wouldn't dawdle or spend any quarters on gum or candy; I wouldn't stop to admire freshly watered flowers or to pet stray dogs. I would show my mother I was responsible and dependable. And she'd thank me with a hundred kisses and shower me with praises, blessing herself that she should have such a perfect daughter.

So I was speeding along, my back tire bumping wildly over cracks in the sidewalk. It was a pleasurable feeling – that brief moment when your butt left the seat, the air surrounding you as if you had wings and were about to take off. I was steering with only one hand gripping the handlebars, the other resting on my thigh. I thought this made me look cool and talented, maybe even grown up. I had taken to doing it a lot lately; I was very good at it, and didn't wobble at all. Soon I wanted to start practising biking with no hands at all, like I had seen the older kids doing in the school parking lot. For some reason, I usually used my left hand to steer, even though my right hand was stronger and more dexterous, and I used it to do everything else, like writing or peeling a banana.

I was driving fast, with only one hand, enjoying the wind as it whipped past me and tangled my hair, singing some song I had heard on the radio earlier that morning under my breath. Unfortunately, I had – and still have – the unlucky tendency of being easily distracted. Mrs. Hammond had added a couple new pieces to her collection of tacky lawn ornaments, and as I craned my neck back to get a second look, I didn't notice the huge gap in the concrete where a chunk was missing.

My front tire caught. My bike jerked to a halt. My momentum flipped my body right over the handlebars, onto the waiting pavement. The air was knocked from my lungs. I was disoriented by the blue sky and the sudden change in my field of vision. For a moment, I was too shocked to feel any pain. My palms and knees were badly scrapped, like someone had taken a cheese grater to my flesh. Bits of dirt were mixed in with my blood. There was a nasty gash on my elbow that was embedded with gravel. My mouth tasted coppery. I ran my tongue over my teeth, and found one of them was wiggly. I turned my head to the side and spit. My saliva was red.

A police cruiser flashed its lights once and pulled up to the curb beside me. Your father threw open his door, raced over, and knelt down beside me. Even in the heat, he was dressed in full uniform. Beads of sweat adorned his forehead. His eyes were crinkled in concern, and I could see the first traces of crows' feet. I didn't know it was possible to describe eye colors as kind, but his were, and I knew instinctively that I was face-to-face with one of the few remaining genuinely good men in this world. "Are you okay?" he asked, and his voice sounded like a brook rippling over wet stones.

That was when I noticed my bicycle, laying on its side, groceries littering the ground. The oranges were scattered along the sidewalk, their skins bruised; the milk carton had burst on impact, and milk was curdling and evaporating on the hot pavement; the pack of eggs was soggy, dripping yellow yolk. I knew better than to hope any of the shells were still intact. It was this food catastrophe, more than my own injuries, that caused me to burst into tears.

"Stiles, grab my first-aid kit! It's okay, sweetie. My name is Sheriff Stilinski, and I'm going to get you cleaned up, alright?" I sniffed and nodded, allowing your father to pat my shoulder. He checked my limbs for possible sprains and fractures. He had such nice hands, and a gentle touch, just like my mother's, and he smelled like coffee. As he checked me over, he asked me questions – if I knew my name and the date, stuff like that – to make sure I hadn't sustained a concussion. He dug a lint-covered tissue out of his pocket and handed it to me.

The passenger window was rolled up to keep in the air conditioning. You called out, but we couldn't hear what you said. Your dad motioned for you to roll down the window. I couldn't see you, but I could hear the creaking of the crank as you rolled the glass partially down. "Dad, I can't find it."

"Check under your seat."

"Got it!"

At that age, I had not yet felt any romantic desire or any real interest in boys. I had a few male friends who I played soccer with after school, or who traded their lunches with me, or rode their bikes with me to the edge of town, to catch frogs in the pond and wade out into the cool water up to our knees, dragging our hands along the bottom and coming up with fistfuls of clay. Boy friends were the same as girl friends, except that they never wanted to play Barbies, they sometimes did weird and stupid things, and they could go pee just about anywhere and they could do it standing up. Outside of the few male friends I had, boys meant absolutely nothing to me whatsoever.

But when you stepped out of the car, my whole world shifted. In one quick second, my perspective changed. I suddenly understood why some of my female friends gushed over celebrities and threw out nonsensical words like "cutie" and "hunk" and "dreamy"; why Christy would pause the dvd of her favourite boy-band and kiss the screen; why Jenna had drawn a big heart with Dallas' name on it, and given it to him for Valentine's Day, much to the shock and embarrassment of many. I finally understood what my mother meant when she said someday I'd grow up and fall in love and I'd like it, when I told her that her and Dad's public displays of affection were gross; and why the women in the television shows my grandmother watched in the afternoons were always chasing after men in the rain and kissing for unbelievable stretches of time.

You were clutching a brown paper bag in your right fist, a white first-aid kit gripped in the left. On your wrist was a flaking temporary tattoo, like the kind you get out of packs of bubble gum. It was mostly gone, and I couldn't tell if it was supposed to be a man or a beast. You were wearing a Batman t-shirt two sizes too big, blue plaid shorts with grass-stained knees, and mismatched socks inside sneakers with neon green laces. I figured you had dressed yourself, and there was something very admirable in that, in the way you didn't seem to care what colors went together or if your socks clashed. You dressed the way you wanted. My mother was always fussing over my clothes, which were limited, telling me this didn't look good with that, and whatever.

Your brown hair was shaggy and messy, sticking up in odd angles all over your head. A bright red sunburn covered your nose and cheeks, making your freckles and the mole on the left side of your mouth more apparent. Though you weren't smiling, I could see the traces of dimples, and knew you were the kind of person who laughed often. Your eyes were large and worried, the color of tarnished pennies. I hadn't known it was possible to fall in love with someone's eyes.

God, I thought you were the most beautiful boy I had ever seen.

You handed the kit to your dad, and he rummaged inside. I could tell he knew what he was doing, had probably done this before, with you. It's funny that should be the first commonality we shared. The sheriff ripped open a packet with a wet antiseptic pad inside. He touched it gingerly to the wounds on my hands, but it still stung. I hissed in pain. "I'm sorry, hon, but we need to clean the cuts so they don't get infected." I nodded. He puckered his lips and blew gently on the cuts as he continued to disinfect them. The cool air from his mouth helped alleviate the pain. I wasn't crying anymore. Your father's voice and touch were soothing, reminding me of fresh-baked cookies and blanket forts, lying in the sun on warm afternoons with a glass of iced-tea. He was the nicest policeman I had ever met, and I felt safe with him there beside me. I wondered vaguely if you knew how lucky you were to have such a dad.

As he cleaned and bandaged the rest of my injuries, you retrieved the loaf of bread – the only item that remained unscathed – and the oranges, picked my bike off the ground, and repacked my basket. I watched you, your awkward and gangly movements, like you were still getting used to your own skin, the shape of your body after yet another growth spurt. I wasn't sore anymore, watching you, and I almost didn't feel it when your father put the next antiseptic wipe on my knee.

"I like your bike." You ran your fingers along the crossbar, admiring the stickers. "Some of these are really cool! Hey, there's a Batman one! I've never seen that one before!" I was rather proud of my sticker collection. I had everything: animals and dinosaurs, superheroes and Barbie, My Little Pony and Hot Wheels, Scooby Doo and Pokemon, Disney characters and clowns, glittery flowers and hearts and stars, and words in bold and fancy text, like LOVE and DREAMS and HOT STUFF. I even had stickers on there from school, that teachers gave us when we did well on tests or to encourage us to do things like brush our teeth or stop racism or prevent forest fires. I even had this one of a tooth wearing sunglasses riding a wave of blue mouthwash on a red toothbrush surfboard. I thought it was pretty cool.

"Thanks. I get most of them from bubble gum machines." They cost me a quarter, and would come rolled up in transparent plastic domes, shaped like half an egg. "Or sometimes I get sheets and packs of them, and just put on my favourites. Those ones there, of the animals reading books, I got as a prize from the library for reading twenty books for the summer reading program." You were impressed. You smiled and it was impossible not to smile back.

"There we go, all done." Your dad helped me stand. "Lucky we were driving by when we did. We saw you go right over the handlebars. Good thing you were wearing that helmet." I blushed a deep crimson, suddenly feeling shy and very silly. How embarrassing! You had witnessed my colossal wipeout! And I was usually such a great cyclist too. "Can you get home okay, or would you like a ride?" My knees were aching, and it hurt when I bent them. I felt sore all over. But I didn't want you to think I was weak, that I couldn't handle a few scrapes and bruises. I wanted you to think I was strong. Plus, I knew, if I showed up in a police vehicle, the explanation wouldn't matter, my mother would have a conniption fit and probably pass out. Then I'd really be embarrassed.

"Thank you, sir. I'm okay. I can walk home. It's not far from here." I couldn't help but wince as I moved towards my bike and claimed it from you. I knew I'd have to push it home; there was no way I could ride it without killing myself. Your dad eyed me doubtfully.

"I'll walk her home!"

The offer surprised both of us. "Can you get home alright?" your dad asked, glancing around. "Do you know where we are, where to go from here?" I figured you probably didn't spend much time in this neighbourhood.

You rolled your eyes. I'd never have dared such a thing with my parents. "Don't worry, Dad. I know this town like the back of my hand. We drive around enough."

Your dad smiled at you fondly – did you notice? - and checked his wrist watch. "Okay. But go straight home. I expect you there for dinner."

"Yes, sir!" You gave a mock salute that made me giggle. Your dad shook his head but chuckled. He climbed back into the cruiser and waved goodbye. I yelled my thanks after him until he was out of sight. You picked the egg carton off the ground and opened it up. "Hey, look!" There were two eggs nestled safely inside. "What do ya know?" I removed my helmet, put it in the basket, and then tucked the two perfect eggs inside.

My scalp was sweaty, and I knew I must have helmet hair. I smoothed my hair back, and raked my fingers through it to untangle some of the knots. I had never cared about my appearance in front of a boy before. It was a very disconcerting feeling.

We walked in silence for a couple minutes, suddenly at a loss for words. You were walking so closely I could feel the heat coming from your bare skin. The beads on my spokes made a clicking sound as the wheels turned. You opened your paper bag and shoved it in my direction, offering me its contents. It was full of different kinds of penny candies. "Do you want some?"

"Sure!" You dumped some into my hand, and I popped half of them into my mouth. The explosion of multiple flavors on my tongue was sugary and sweet, and a little exhilarating. I could taste each tiny, individual candy and all of them simultaneously. _This is what love must taste like,_ I thought foolishly. What did I know of love at ten? (You will forgive me for being cliche and silly, won't you? I was only a child after all.)

You dumped a handful of candies into your mouth, and as you chewed you started to ask me questions about where I lived and went to school, my family and what I liked to do for fun, what television shows I watched and what I liked to read. Even though I was shy, I didn't mind answering your questions. You made me feel relaxed, at ease, like we'd known each other for years. You had an inviting and friendly presence that instantly made me like you.

We took turns walking my bike. You pushed it all the way up the big hill near my house. I knew we were getting close, but I didn't want to ever arrive. You talked and talked, and made all kinds of jokes. I was laughing so hard I had to clutch my side to keep my internal organs from bursting. You told me about your parents and your best friend, Scott; about the time the two of you had climbed onto the roof of the firehall and gotten in trouble, because your dad had spotted you while he was patrolling, and had discovered that heights made Scott queasy. You recommended I start watching a TV show I had never heard of and maintained that comic books were better than chapter books, though I vehemently disagreed. You explained all your theories on why Batman would beat Superman in a fight, why DC Comics were better than Marvel, and listed the Star Wars movies in order of preference, though I had never seen any of them.

We soon reached my house – a little white bungalow on the top of Willow Street; the front yard was littered with toys, many of which were broken; there was a pile of old tires to one side, and at the top of the driveway was a Chev truck from 1974 that had been in that spot since 1980; paint peeled off the front step, and our Christmas lights were still up. I hadn't learned yet to be ashamed about my house – I loved it; it was mine, my home – that kind of shame would come later. I felt like you were my dearest friend in the world, and you'd never judge me on something as trivial as where I lived, or the fact that I didn't go to a school as nice as yours.

"Thanks for walking me home."

"You're welcome. Maybe we can play together sometime. I like talking to you. And there's this great secret place Scott and I found in the woods that I would love to show you! They say it's haunted."

"Sure! That would be fun! You know where to find me."

"Yeah." You took a stick of bubble gum from your pocket, the kind that came with a sticker wrapped around it. You broke the gum in half, and gave me the larger portion and the sticker. "For your bike," you said. It was a picture of a girl with pink hair, and a boy with green hair, facing each other and blowing blue bubbles that combined to form one giant bubble.

It was the single best thing anybody had ever given me.

"You can put it on," I offered. You considered my bike, peeled off the sticker's backing, and stuck it right in the exact middle of the handlebars. You smiled a wide, toothy grin.

"Now, whenever you see it, you'll think of me."

"Yeah." I smiled too.

"I guess I should go now."

"Yeah."

"Okay, well, bye."

"Bye." We were children, and hadn't yet learned all necessary social graces, like the art of saying goodbye. It was sudden and abrupt, neither of us considering the possibility that we might never see each other again. You waved to me as you walked down the street. I waved and watched until you disappeared over the crest of the hill, a mere speck no bigger than an ant.

It wasn't until later that night I realized you had forgotten to ask me the most important question of all: my name.


	2. Two: Meeting Again

**Two: Meeting Again**

I waited for you that summer, but you didn't come.

In my head, I made all these fantastic plans about the adventures we'd go on. I mapped out routes for bike rides and make-believe treasure hunts. I'd show you my special tree, its branches perfect for climbing and sitting, and we could watch the sun set over Beacon Hills. I'd take you to the ice-cream stand where my cousin Melissa worked downtown, and she'd give us free cones. We'd get different flavors – I pictured you as a chocolate kind of guy – but we'd share licks, and wouldn't even find it gross.

I traced a picture of Batman out of comic book at the library, and signed my name at the bottom, in case you forgot to ask again, and then you'd always have it. The library was one of my favorite places on earth, with books stacked high, light pouring through tall windows, the air cool and smelling of paper and ink, with comfy bean-bag chairs in the kids' section where you could sit and read for hours. It was much quieter than my house – my personal sanctuary. And I liked having my own card with my name on it, and being able to borrow books whenever I pleased. I was determined to show you the wonder of public libraries and chapter books. I'd change your mind, and prove that words could paint better pictures than illustrations. I was happiest when I was reading, and I wanted to share that experience with you.

I thought about you often, whenever I saw that sticker on my bicycle, or bought penny candy, or watched a superhero cartoon on television. I knew that you would come visit again soon.

But you didn't come, and I didn't know how to find you. We were from different neighbourhoods; I didn't know where you liked to hang out or where you lived, so I waited on you. My neighbor Richard, a pug-faced boy of thirteen, told me I couldn't be friends with a boy I had only met once, and that you probably hadn't liked me anyway, so I had better just face facts and give up. I kicked him in the shin to make him shut up. He didn't understand.

My scabs healed into glossy, bright pink patches of skin, but I didn't lose hope. When school started, and there was more homework and less time for play, I never wavered. I knew where you went to school and briefly considered biking there, but by the time I was able to get there from my own school, you'd be long gone for the day. I told my friends about you, and they thought I was very silly indeed, waiting on a boy with mismatched socks and Batman t-shirts, when Gabe was perfectly available and a total "hunk."

I thought about you everyday until the Christmas holidays. The nights were long and cold and dark. I knew you wouldn't come now. You had forgotten me.

I went to the Sheriff's Station. My breath came out in little puffs, like smoke. I imagined I was a dragon. Dragons were brave, right? I stood across the street, debating with myself, pacing back and forth, running through all the reasons I shouldn't go in, and the one reason I should. I wanted, more than anything, to see you again. I'd told Mom I was going to the park. She, and everyone else in my life, was tired of hearing me talk about you. I could see in their eyes; they thought I was pathetic.

I stepped off the curb. The station door opened, and I froze. You were wearing a red jacket, unzipped, and tossing a ring of keys into the air, and catching them with one hand. You were laughing. A dark haired boy was beside you. He tossed his head back, flipping the hair out of his eyes. You called back over your shoulders, and your father appeared, shrugging on his coat.

I ran. I didn't want you to see me. I didn't slow down until I was almost home. I cursed myself under my breath. What had I expected was going to happen? What would I have done, just breezed into the station and asked about you? What if you didn't even remember me? _Stupid, stupid, stupid._

I tried to forget about you, about the way your eyes lit up when you laughed with your mouth wide open. I ripped the sticker you gave me off my handlebars, and immediately regretted doing it. I tried to piece it back together, and taped it onto the back of the Batman tracing. I buried it in the bottom of my sock drawer.

Unfortunately, you weren't as forgettable as I am.

I didn't try to find you again. I saw you a couple times – once driving with your father, another time I was sure I saw you and your friend in the woods, when I was coming back from my special tree, poking around an abandoned house Daddy had always warned me to steer clear of – but I would duck out of sight before you saw me. I avoided the sections of town I thought you might frequent. I didn't talk about you to any of my friends; I moved on, got to know other boys. But sometimes, late at night as I laid in bed listening to quiet music, I took out my memory of that day and cherished it; I tried to imagine how life would have been different if we had become the friends I wanted us to be, how your companionship and presence would have affected choices I made. It made me sad, and sometimes the loneliness hurt my heart like nails had been driven into it. But it made me smile too, and made me hopeful, that somewhere on the planet there existed boys like you. You were my secret daydream, that I never shared with anyone, afraid that once I did, you would cease to exist.

Our paths didn't cross again until high school.

I suppose I should be thankful you didn't know me during my middle school years. They were tough and dramatic, and I went through some weird phases as I tried to find myself, even though I knew they weren't me. I colored my sneakers with rainbow sharpies and wore hoodies that stretched to my knees, my long hair and hood always obscuring my face. I laughed loudly at idiotic jokes and hid my test marks from the prying eyes around me. Boys, I had been told, don't like girls who are smarter than them. I used filthy words that tasted nasty on my tongue, and stopped talking about fantasy kingdoms and voicing aloud my curiosities: like what it would feel like to sleep inside a rose, or if the stars ever cried. I smoked a pack of cigarettes with Christy behind Mr Ullman's shed, and nearly burned it down. Smoking made me sick, and I didn't care to acquire the necessary tolerance. I went to Jenna's for a sleepover, like when we were young. She didn't want to catch fireflies in the yard anymore. She invited over Dallas and Michael, and we snuck beers from her father's mini-fridge in the basement. I hated those too, and the way Michael's eyes travelled over my body as he commented on my shirt. I thought about you and velvet summer days, the sweetness of penny candy and the innocence of stickers.

I wrote mediocre poems about the four walls of my room and the color of my blood. I stopped riding my bike and climbing trees. I spent less time in the library, and more time walking back streets and loitering downtown with people I didn't even like. I learned the meanest bullies wear the masks of friends.

I lost myself, because I had swallowed the lie that who I was wasn't good enough. I listened to the voices of the kids around me, and let them change me. My very self was the price I paid for false friendship. I didn't know loneliness hurts more in a crowd.

High school meant a new building, new people. A fresh start. A chance to reinvent myself. I decided things would be different, and I would stay true to myself, whatever the consequences. I had outgrown my bike, but I still loved the color purple. I had purple plaid sneakers that I loved and wore long after I had worn holes into the soles. I carried a matching purple backpack, covered in tin pins of movies and literary quotes and nerdy pictures, and I always kept it full of books. I wore my hair back in a ponytail, because it was easier to deal with that way, and wore dark red lipstick, the color of pomegranate wine, because I loved the smell and the taste, and it reminded me of glamourous Hollywood starlets from the classic films my grandmother watched on TV. My favourite articles of clothing were my cardigans and "ugly" sweaters. I wore them all the time, even on warm days, because they made me feel safe and comforted, like wearable apple cider or security blankets you could wrap around yourself and wear outside, like Linus' blue blanket.

A lot can change in five years, and even though meeting you had completely changed my life, you had only known me a couple hours. And you didn't even know my name, that most intimate part of myself. I never expected you to recognize me. On that first day of classes, when Mr Smith called my name during roll-call in homeroom, it meant nothing to you. Just another new face to learn during a time of nothing but newness. Just another girl, another fish swimming in this big new sea.

"Stiles Stilinski."

"Here."

I had been absently tapping my fingers against my desk to the rhythm of a song I had stuck in my head, but I stopped instantly at the sound of your voice. I hadn't heard it in years, and even then had only known its utterance briefly, but I would have known it anywhere. It was surreal, like something from one of my dreams, hearing it again, in a setting as simple and unexpected as homeroom. Your voice was deeper, stronger, but it had that trace of laughter and friendliness I remembered.

I turned in my seat to look at you, my heart hammering in my chest. I half-realized I felt something akin to fear. You sat in the back, beside a kid with floppy dark hair and wide, nervous eyes. The kid from the sheriff's station, I would have recalled, if I had been paying attention to anyone but you. You raised your hand and gave a slight wave, as you alerted the teacher to your presence. "Here," that one word, was an open-mouthed laugh. You weren't anxious or shy. _Here I am, as I am, take it or leave it,_ you conveyed in that one gesture.

My heart gave an irritating hiccup and I sighed.

In the preceding months, if I had thought about you, it was in a passing dream, half-forgotten in the light of day, or in a sudden reverie on a Friday night, alone in my room, laptop turned off to keep out the words like bullets, wondering where you were and what you were doing. I tried not to wonder if you ever thought about me, because I was scared to know the answer, even though I thought I already did.

Your hair was cropped short, close to your scalp; your eyes were still as wide and curious as ever, but they were more brown, more _deep_. My memory hadn't done them justice. Your face was boyish; you looked twelve, not fifteen, especially when you grinned. It was difficult to believe five years had passed. You were taller, long legs stretched out under your desk. Your arms and fingers were longer too, and before I could stop myself, I was wondering what it would feel like to intertwine your fingers through mine or feel them running through my hair. Your cheekbones were more defined, and you had lost almost all your baby fat. You had lovely pink lips, like berry bubble gum and paper hearts, perfectly curved and punctuated by the most delicious dimples. I could see it there, at the corner of your mouth, and I knew how Wendy Darling felt, craving that hidden, special kiss.

To my right sat my best friend Lela, the only one of my childhood friends who had stuck around into adolescence. I kicked her hard. "Ow! What was that for?"

"That's him! That's the guy!" I whispered through gritted teeth, jerking my head in your direction.

"Who?"

"Stiles. The boy who walked me home that time I fell of my bike."

"Yeah, the _one time_ you fell."

"Hey, I'm a great cyclist. That's not the point! There was only _one_ time I hurt myself and a boy walked me all the way home."

Remembrance dawned in her eyes. "When you were _ten?_ That boy?"

"Yes."

"Where?" She was _not_ subtle, cocking her head back and forth like a deranged chicken, scanning faces until she found yours. She smiled, slow and big, my own personal Cheshire cat. "Ooo, he's cute. Adorable, in a dorky kind of way. He's no Jonas Brother, but I approve." She eyed the boy beside you. "Who's his friend? He's like a hot Taylor Lautner-Justin Bieber hybrid."

I stole a glance over my shoulder. "I guess that's Scott." Suddenly, I felt sick, like my heart had just fallen into my stomach and was being eaten by acidic juices. I sighed, looked back at the teacher then at my hands, picking at a loose thread on the bracelet around my wrist. It was one of those simple string bracelets young girls make. My sister had made it for me. I never took it off.

"Hey, what's up?" Lela asked, noticing the change in my demeanor. "You look sad all of a sudden." I always had been an open book.

"No. I'm fine."

"I can tell you're not, but if you want to lie to me, whatever."

"I just don't feel so well, okay?"

"Probably just first day jitters. High school will do that to you." She smiled sympathetically.

"Yeah, I think you're right. I'm just nervous."

I couldn't tell her. She wouldn't understand, even if I could ever find the words to explain. All these years, thinking of you, daydreaming of you, and I suddenly realized how insignificant a figure I was in your life: an extra, a brief cameo, a mere blip on the ninety years of your existence.

All these years, and I realized, I didn't know you at all.


End file.
